


Weapon of Choice

by thereweregiants



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Light Angst, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: Gabe listens, as McCree seduces a man with his name. It's just one more honeypot mission in the books.





	Weapon of Choice

**Author's Note:**

> there I was about ready to jump back in the middle of the AU That Would Not End when the power goes out. to half the city. and I realize all my writing was on google docs bc I'm an idiot
> 
> so I opened up word and vomited this out in annoyance
> 
> mostly written with zero references or internet access please god never make me do that again. 
> 
> soundtrack mostly Arthur Russell's Another Thought. title stolen from [Fatboy Slim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHirGDEUcWo) bc we all needed to remember 2001

Gabriel Reyes stood fully suited up in his Blackwatch tactical armor and gear, looked at the two impeccably groomed people in front of him, and felt underdressed. Two agents: one male, one female, each wearing clothing that cost more than Gabe’s yearly salary. Each beautiful in sumptuous black fabric and jewels, gleaming with expensive cologne and class.

“Final review of details,” he said, starting to pace back and forth in front of them. “We don’t know the target’s history. We don’t know his profession. We don’t know where he’s from. We don’t even know his name. All we have is that he will be at this cocktail party tonight with a selection of Western Europe’s worst wheelers and dealers in the world of weapons development and experimentation. And he has, somewhere in his hotel room, a datapad with some schematics that we would really, really like to get our hands on”.

Gabe handed each agent a small black pouch with an assortment of items of dubious legality inside. “Security here is tight, because they know who is going to be here. We don’t want them to know that Blackwatch or Overwatch has even heard of this party, so one of you is going to get the target to take you back to his hotel room. Once there, knock him out. Ideally, in a way he doesn’t realize it’s happening. You have tabs to put in his drink, you have some contact drug patches, there are some micro syringes…hell, get him drunk and fuck his brains out ‘til he’s unconscious, I really don’t care. All you need to do is come out of the room with the data extracted to a memory stick and him not knowing you did it.”

The hotel room they were in was littered with tablets, most on the desk and each showing a different view of the inside of the building next door. Gabe gestured to them, “We’ve hacked into their surveillance system, but that and your com lines to me are about it in terms of backup.” He handed each of them a tiny communications link that was nigh invisible once fit into the ear. “You can talk to me but not each other. I can hear you and most of what is being said to you. When one person snags the target, the other will move to a holding pattern until further instruction. Nothing is being recorded, audio or visual, so you are in the clear for anything you feel necessary. Questions so far?”

“What are our cover stories?” asked Thomas. She was stunning in a floor-length black velvet gown with delicate silver jewelry draping her neck and updo. She looked like a Sargent painting, had he ever painted a tall, deadly beautiful brunette who was currently seeing how many sharp instruments she could slide into the pleating of her bodice.

“I want you to enter together, but not be together – you need to be romantically available. Business partners, here’s some ID and your invitations.” He handed them sleek black business cards that advertised an antique gun store in London and English drivers’ licenses, along with a thick and expensive slip of paper with calligraphy on it. “Invent as much or as little background as you want, you shouldn’t really have to talk to anyone other than the target.”

“Please tell me we don’t have to do accents,” said McCree, peering at the driver’s license as he fiddled with a cufflink. “You know that’s not gonna go well.”

Gabe sighed. “Thomas, you do an accent. McCree, you’ll be her somewhat uncouth American partner who knows more about guns than business. Just try and keep it classy, remember where you are and who you are trying to snag. This guy has money and taste, so for the love of god try acting like you possess some yourself.”

Despite his words, Gabe knew McCree would be fine. Regardless of how he tended to dress in everyday life –  _ and on regular missions; Gabe still couldn’t believe they custom made a black cowboy hat for the man _ – McCree could handle the highest of high class functions with aplomb. What his training didn’t get him through, his natural charm did. If it wouldn’t be weird and possibly inappropriate, Gabe would put McCree on every possible honeypot mission – the man had never met someone he couldn’t sweep off their feet with just a bit of effort.

Gabe turned to a tablet and hit a button to project it on the wall. “This is the hotel. Main ballroom here is where you’ll be, and one floor up is the target’s room, room 223. If you need emergency extraction I can be there in less than five minutes, but try not to need it. You’re both armed?” Thomas and McCree both nodded. “Good. Try not to shed any blood.”

“You know the drill with these missions. Both of you lay out feelers, see how he swings. Don’t get assaulted, but do what you have to in order to get what we need.” He handed a second black pouch to them. “Protection, if you need it.” It probably said something about how odd Gabe’s life was, that making semi-regular requisitions for mission-required prophylactic supplies was a normal occurrence.

Gabe checked his watch. “Party starts at nine. You have some time, get some food on your stomach so it can absorb the alcohol. Don’t get anything on your clothes, they cost more than your gear.”

“Yes, dad,” said Thomas as they made for the door. McCree paused in the doorway. “Want us to bring you back anything, boss?”

Gabe shook his head, half smile on his face. “No. Thanks, though. Get on your coms five minutes out for final check in.” McCree nodded and let the door close behind him.

Gabe sat on the hotel bed, pulled his hat off and tossed it in a corner, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He hated these types of missions. Blackwatch’s specialty was knowing more than anyone else, and using that to get what they wanted. Going in with no information, depending on an unknown man’s horniness level for them to complete the mission? Not Gabe’s favorite thing. He liked depending on the skills of the team that he had built up over years, not throwing them in without a paddle and hoping the debris would form a rowboat.

Grabbing a tablet and sitting on the bed against the wall, Gabe flicked through all the pictures and information they had of the man. Tall, dark hair, green eyes, fit, expensively dressed. Some type of go between or fence in the weapons development world – the fact that they didn’t know who he was meant that he wasn’t that important, but he had somehow ended up with some information that Jack had informed him was vital for them to intercept. Given that they’d come across some rather unconventional firearms used against them recently, Gabe was inclined to agree.

His tablet’s screen flashed – five minutes ‘til showtime. Gabe walked around the room and rearranged his screens so they all faced the chair he set up in front of them. The screen projected on the wall now had two small lights that were hovering outside the hotel blueprint – the trackers he had on McCree and Thomas.

He turned to a tablet at the side, showing the outside of the hotel. Various people milled around, but McCree and Thomas stood out, with both their stark black clothing and their elegance. There was no audio in the surveillance system, but the video quality was excellent. He watched as Thomas arranged her necklaces to fall more evenly, before smiling and saying something silently to McCree as she reached up to smooth his hair back. McCree had thick brown locks that refused to be tamed by brushes, and so was usually kept hidden from polite society under his hats. Now it was as under control as it could get, but still seemed to want to do its own thing. Gabe flexed his fingers as he looked at the other surveillance screens and tried not to imagine running his fingers through that hair.

Because that was his deep dark secret, that he wouldn’t reveal under torture: Gabe had inappropriate feelings for his subordinate, and had for some time now. Gabriel Reyes was the Commander of Blackwatch, a highly decorated military man and graduate of the SEP program. He would never let emotions get in the way of doing his job, and never let something like fraternization unbecoming of an officer ever come up in regards to himself. And so Gabe took all that training and used it to play a small part every day – that of a man who had never had anything other than professional feelings towards Jesse McCree.

And that was the other, hidden reason he hated these type of missions. Because he got to see McCree seducing everyone in hi-def audio and sometimes visual, a fly on his shoulder as he did what he had to. On Gabe’s orders. Gabe had watched him do it dozens of times: knew the pet names McCree used, knew if he would get a weak drink to stay sharp or a strong drink to dull everything, knew how he kissed, knew how he fucked, knew what it sounded like as he came. All on Gabe’s orders.

From a technical standpoint, these were some of the best missions for the organization. No one ideally would be injured, no exotic weaponry or technology would be needed, the only costs involved were those of disguises matching the venue, which could be anything from the elegance of tonight to the rags and grease of a Junker bar. The agents just had to smile and maybe put out a little. Overwatch loved these missions. They loved the low cost and low number of people needed. And Blackwatch…dealt. They dealt with agents in relationships that were required by their job to be unfaithful, with everyone wilting under the emotional toll of false romance, with agents that didn’t feel attraction to the assigned gender or to anyone at all being made to play roles they should never have had to. 

Bullet wounds healed, slashes could get stitches, poison had antidotes. But the psychological burden of what he asked his agents could do had no quick fix, no biotic field to cover the damage.

Gabe tried to make it as easy as possible, matching personalities and sexualities the best he could. He’d even done it himself more than once, when there were no better options. It was one thing to ask a subordinate to put themselves in the line of fire. It was another to ask them to open themselves emotionally and physically for material gain. He felt like a pimp in the worst of ways.

“Showtime, boss,” came McCree’s drawl in his right ear. “Checking in, one two,” came Thomas’s impeccable and recently applied RP accent. Gabe clicked his own com on the line. “I hear you both. Click if you can hear me.” Two clicks came in.

“Okay, you know what to do. If you need emergency extraction, code phrase is ‘the architecture here is stunning’. Don’t rush, don’t push too fast if you don’t have to, the party will go on for awhile. I’m here listening if you need me.”

McCree and Thomas linked arms, strolling into the hotel like they owned the place. They both smiled at strangers like they knew them, confidence leading their targets to feel like this was an old friend they hadn’t seen for years.

They drifted apart to the bars on either side of the hotel ballroom, Thomas opting for white wine that wouldn’t class with her outfit’s color scheme and McCree with his usual bourbon. Gabe ignored his agents for the moment and scanned the crowd, looking for their target. He finally spotted the guy, at the end of the bar that Thomas was at. “Target spotted, end of Thomas’s bar close to the potted plants. Navy suit with silver vest. Thomas, looks like you’re up first. If nothing else, try and get a tracker on him so I don’t have to do it through the system.”

Looking like she had all the time in the world, Thomas moved her way down the bar, depositing her still full glass on a passing omnic waiter’s tray. She walked with her hips forward, a toned down sashay that was the opposite of crude but drew the eye to her best assets while leaving her still ladylike. Laying a delicate hand on the bar next to the target, she caught a waiter’s eye and ordered a champagne, voice with the right level of expecting-to-be-obeyed confidence but not tipping over into arrogance. She caught the target’s eye and demurely looked down with a slight smile.

“Champagne. Are you celebrating something?” The target had a frustrating neutral accent, something almost Mid-Atlantic. Either he was extremely upper-class American - in which they should know about him - or he had spend so much time going back and forth between Europe and America that his accent was a mishmash of both. Or he was hiding his origins. God, one sentence out of the man and Gabe was already annoyed.

“Possibly, depending on how the night goes,” Thomas said, smile audible in her voice. She held out a delicate hand. “Georgina Grantchester.” The target took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Gabriele Bianchi. A pleasure.”

Gabe immediately began searches on every possible network for the name ‘Gabriele Bianchi’ and any possible variations. As Bianchi and Thomas made small talk and McCree slowly made his way across the room to them, ‘no record’ popped up again and again. “Okay guys, target’s name was given as Gabriele Bianchi, no records are showing up anywhere but if this guy has stayed under the radar we might not have anything on him. I’m going to run civilian databases now, but you know how long that will take so don’t expect any additional info soon.”

Gabe started the search of civilian records, putting Italy, America, and the UK as priorities based off of name and accent. Given that the guy had a common first and last name and there were apparently a few famous Gabriele Bianchis throughout history to muck things up, Gabe didn’t expect much. He turned his attention back to Thomas’s conversation.

She was talking about the antique gun shop that she and McCree owned. “Oh yes, most of our trade is in older weaponry, but we do keep our nose in when it comes to more modern arms. It is why my partner and I are here, in fact - several of our clients are at this party.”

“Your partner?” Bianchi’s tone of mild polite interest was subtly making it clear that while good at small talk, Thomas appeared to not be what he was looking for. 

“Yes, in fact, there he is now. Oh, Joshua!” Thomas waved a hand at McCree, who had made it to their bar. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and made his way over. 

“Sorry, took me a minute with the crowd there. Who’s your new friend, Georgina?” McCree had toned down his usual drawl, sounding more like a generic American than his usual southwestern archetype. 

“Gabriele Bianchi. You can call me Gabe,” the target said with a hand out to shake and a quirk to his mouth that was definitely not there when he was speaking to Thomas. Bingo.

“Gabe, eh? One of my favorite names,” McCree said with genuine amusement in his voice. Gabe rubbed his eyes with a hand. This was not the time for McCree to fuck around, when he was about to snag the target. “Focus,” Gabe snarled into the com, and was treated to McCree’s mouth twitching upwards as he held out a hand. “Joshua Ferris. Great to make your acquaintance.” 

The handshake went on for just a second or two too long, but enough for McCree and Thomas to immediately get the picture. Thomas touched McCree’s shoulder. “Joshua, I think I see our French client over by the other bar. I’ll be back soon, yes?” She touched Bianchi’s shoulder as well, attaching with a touch a miniscule silver tracker dot. Thomas departed in a flicker of black velvet, but Bianchi and McCree seemed not to notice.

“Falling back, tracker attached,” muttered Thomas into her com, as she wove her way across the room. 

“Try and stay line of sight, but you’re sidelined for the moment. Hold for fifteen, then scout out the route to the hotel room.” Gabe said, receiving a click in reply. He touched a button and a red light appeared on the screen, joining Thomas’s green and McCree’s blue. 

“...and so the bird just  _ exploded _ , and my friend says, ‘hey Joshua, you’re only supposed to get birdies in golf!’” Gabe mouths the end of the sentence along with McCree, having heard him use the story a hundred times. It works on Bianchi, who laughs and uses the laugh to inch a bit closer. McCree raises his hand to the bartender. “I’m getting another bourbon, what can I get for you, Gabe?” 

Gabe winces at the warmth in McCree’s voice, using his name. That was a lot of what made him so successful at honeypots - he was always so genuine, sounding just like he did when he joked around with Thomas or Genji or Gabe himself when at home. It wasn’t so much playing a role as just...being him. That was going to make his voice coming out of McCree’s mouth all night a special kind of hell. McCree didn’t use Gabe’s first name often, but he did it often enough that Gabe knew what it sounded like when he meant it.

The two men were both sipping on new drinks, bodies turned towards each other. “Thomas. Start the route check,” Gabe ordered, and Thomas began to make her way towards the elevators, glass of champagne half-empty. She added a slight sway to her step - not drunk, but just tipsy enough that she could explain away being somewhere she shouldn’t. 

Gabe watched her, listening to the men flirt with half an ear. The elevator didn’t require a keycard to operate, and Thomas made her way up to the second floor. There was a camera in the elevator and one in the second floor lobby, but that was it. “Take one step more and then stop,” Gabe told Thomas. “You are now outside my visuals. How far from you to the room?”

“One sec.” Gabe turned down the volume on McCree as he listened to Thomas’s muffled footsteps. “Maybe fifteen feet from where I stopped to his door. Another fifty feet to the stairs at the end of the hallway.” 

Gabe glanced at the camera on McCree and the target. McCree had his hand resting on the man’s arm, and it was definitely not being shaken off. Reassured things were on track, he turned mentally back to Thomas. “Check the stairs. If there is no alarm, take them down.”

High heels chattered on polished wood. “Nicest back stairs I’ve ever seen, boss. Looks like the hallway down here goes right back to the ballroom. Can you see me?” Gabe looked from camera to camera until he spotted Thomas’s lean black form on one. 

“Yes, I have you. Where does that door lead to?” He watched Thomas push the door open and take a step out, seemingly just a woman enjoying the fresh air. 

“Back garden. Good exit, looks like it’s all of fifty feet from the entrance to your hotel.”

“Good. Go back to the ballroom, I’ll get McCree away so I can tell him this, you keep an eye on Bianchi.” Thomas acknowledged and strode down the hall back to the party.

Gabe turned the volume back up on the other com line. “McCree. Take a bathroom break so I can update you.”

McCree finished listening with apparent rapt attention to the story Bianchi was telling, then stepped closer to put a hand on his chest. “Gabe, I’m going to visit the facilities for just a moment, but you’ll still be here when I get back, right?” He made it sound like the only possible answer would be yes, as Bianchi nodded dumbly. McCree gave him a slow smile then ambled off, letting his hand trail away slowly.

Gabe watched onscreen as McCree walked unhurriedly to the restrooms at the side of the ballroom and opened the door. “You’re out of my visual. Are you alone?” The sound of footsteps on tile and stall doors being opened. 

“I’m alone, boss. Update?”

“Thomas scouted out the route to the hotel room. No security apparent other than the surveillance I’m already tapped into. Visuals on the second floor end at the lobby, there’s fifteen feet from there to Bianchi’s hotel door. If you continue down the hallway there is a set of stairs that takes you back down to the first floor, with an unalarmed door that goes out to the garden with our base hotel right next to it. Use that to get out.” 

Gabe heard the door open and footsteps enter, and a sound of water as McCree turned on the faucet and washed his hands. A handful of seconds later saw McCree back on his visuals, exiting the restroom. “Will do, boss,” he muttered as he walked back to Bianchi.

McCree slid a hand from Bianchi’s shoulder down to his elbow as he reached the target. “So Gabe,” he said in a voice that would be a purr on anyone who wasn’t six foot one and built like a brick shithouse. “I saw a very nice patio over there and I have some accompanying very nice cigars on my person. Would you like to go with me to try them out?” At Bianchi’s assent they grabbed their drinks and made their way to the small patio that was just off the ballroom. 

“Thomas. Stay line of sight.” She made her way over, having just rebuffed the advances of yet another semi-drunken arms dealer. Poor woman. 

Bianchi and McCree stepped out onto the patio. “Stay close to the doors, McCree. I can see you but if you go past the edges I lose visual.”

A click of assent, then the murmur of small talk as McCree pulled from the inside of his suit a cigar case - thankfully not the battered copper case that held McCree’s usual selection of vile cigarillos. He offered Bianchi a cigar, but he turned it down. “I’m actually not a huge fan of them, to be honest.” 

Gabe couldn’t see McCree’s face, but he could imagine his expression as he said in a soft voice in return, “But you still came out here with me?”

Bianchi smiled. “The company is good enough.”

They sat down on a bench, thankfully facing the camera, as McCree pulled out a switchblade -  _ goddamnit McCree we gave you a cigar cutter for a reason _ \- and easily clipped the end of the cigar. Gabe watched carefully and Bianchi seemed to be into the blade that McCree pulled out of nowhere, so he held back the comment he wanted to make over the com. McCree put the cigar in his mouth, lips wrapping around the end  _ just so _ , Bianchi watching his mouth instead of the end that McCree was lighting.

McCree leaned back and draped an arm behind Bianchi. “You sure I can’t tempt you into a puff, Gabe? It’s smooth as anything.” McCree held the spit-damp end towards Bianchi, who kept his eyes on McCree as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the tube of tobacco.  _ Jesus Christ, what happened to subtlety? _ Gabe thought to himself and tried to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

Gabe’s mind wandered during their murmured small talk, and he leaned over to flip through the results that the civilian database searches had turned up. There was no one in the American one that looked quite right and the Italian one was still running, but the UK one...there was a Gabriele Carlo Bianchi there that looked about right. No picture, somehow, but he appeared to be the correct age. Gabe tapped to expand the file. Early life in Kingston upon Thames, moved to Boston with his family at age 10, went to Princeton then the London School of Economics for a masters’ in business administration. No record of him after that, other than a few private auctions won at Sotheby’s that had to be from a background investor due to the numbers involved. 

Noticing a lack of sound, Gabe looked over to the patio video feed to see McCree gently tilting Bianchi’s head into a kiss, cigar left burning and forgotten on the bench next to them. Gabe wanted to turn away, to pace around the room, to do anything but watch McCree’s lips trail across the jaw of this other man who had stolen his name. Instead he was as professional as if Jack was sitting next to him, hands carefully relaxed on the arms of his chair.

Bianchi reached in and unbuttoned McCree’s waistcoat, sliding a hand in along his side. “Oh, Gabe,” McCree sighed as Bianchi kissed down his neck. God. At least if McCree’s mouth was occupied he wasn’t using Gabe’s name in vain, in that tone of voice. The men slid closer together, Bianchi seemingly about ready to climb into McCree’s lap.

“Do- do you have somewhere more private we could take this? Please, Gabe,” McCree whispered raggedly into the other man’s mouth. Bianchi nodded and stood, adjusting himself at his obvious arousal as he held out a hand to pull up McCree. As they walked back into the ballroom they didn’t hold hands, but did walk close enough to brush shoulders as they made their way onto the elevator. They passed by Thomas, who had turned so Bianchi wouldn’t recognize her, but Bianchi didn’t have eyes for anything but McCree right then. 

“Stay by the elevators, Thomas. Hopefully you’ll both be out soon.” 

Gabe glanced at the elevator feed, only to see Bianchi pinning McCree against the wall in a deep kiss, broken only as the elevator doors opened. They exited into the empty lobby, but just before they turned into the hallway Bianchi pushed McCree against the curve of the archway separating the room from the corridor, sealing his body against the larger man’s. Gabe watched McCree’s hands flex in a way that he knew from long experience meant ‘I want a weapon in my fingers’ before he wrapped his arms around Bianchi’s waist. After a minute, McCree pulled his head back, thunking it against the wall.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this, darlin’, but could we go somewhere a little more private? The open space is making me itchy.” 

Bianchi pulled him into the hallway, vanishing from sight. This was Gabe’s least favorite part. He turned up the volume on the channel, the audio now his only connection to what was happening. He listened to their footsteps, to the door opening, to more footsteps and the door closing behind them. Fabric rustled against a background of wet noises, lips against each other and god knew where else. 

Murmurs. Lots of “Joshua”s, so whatever McCree was doing must be going well. The rustle of fabric. “Gabe…” came a throaty sigh right in Gabe’s ear. “Gabe Gabe Gabe oh, keep doing  _ just _ that…” Gabe was pacing now. He had to be doing this on purpose. McCree had a thousand pet names, he didn’t have to be using the guy’s name if he didn’t want to. Lost in his thoughts, he came back to himself as McCree’s voice groaned in his ear, “Gabe, wanted this for so long…”

Gabe heard the creak of bedsprings, then another creak. The sound of fabric, of a zipper. Of fabric again. “Oh, very nice, Gabe,” came McCree’s whisper, then the click of a lid and the sound of flesh on lubricated flesh. Bianchi was panting, his breath loud enough that his mouth must be very near McCree’s ear. It grew louder, interspersed with comments about how good Joshua was, how beautiful he was, and various other inanities. With a gasp the noises slowed then stopped. There was a confusingly long moment of silence, then the softer sound of lips on lips. That too stopped after a minute. 

“Gabe?” The creak of the bed.

“Gabe, baby, you awake? You with me?” Silence.

“Okay boss. I think he’s out. Patch on his neck. Any idea what this datapad looks like?” McCree whispered, sibilants softened by caution.

“Nope. only info we have says ‘datapad.’”

Rustling as McCree searched the room. “Okay, I have...Jesus I have four datapads here in a briefcase. Locked with biometrics.” More rustling. “Used his finger to unlock them. This one...has lots of documents, looks like code. Gonna copy it over.” The sound of plastic hitting metal. “Next one looks like it’s personal, all I see are entertainment apps. You want it?” At Gabe’s negatory sound, McCree moved on. “This one has image files. Holy shit, lots of image files. Blueprints and weapons, and what looks like maps. I’m takin’ it all. Last one seems to be blank, doesn’t even have the biometrics or anything set up. Give me a minute to sweep but I think we’re good.”

Gabe switched over to Thomas. “Be ready to leave in five or less. I want you exiting the building as McCree exits the room.”

Back to McCree. “Anything?”

“Negative, boss. I copied the data from his phone just in case, but this seemed to be it.”

“Okay. Exit and back to the hotel.”

“Gimme just a sec to peel the patch off of him and write a note.”

“A note?”

“I’m a considerate one night stand. I’m puttin’ down that he must have been tired, blah blah blah. Make it seem like it was his fault for passin’ out.”

“How thoughtful.”

“I try.”

Gabe watched Thomas on the screen. “Thomas. Out.” She made her way towards the entrance they came in, waving to various people she had connected with over the course of the night. Gabe heard the sound of hard-soled shoes on wood as McCree went down the stairs, and watched him pop up on the video feed for just a second before he slipped out the door. Both agents out of the building, data extracted, no harm done to anyone. Gabe tried to feel a sense of triumph at the successful op, but mostly just felt tired.

Five minutes later his door opened, Thomas and McCree filing in. Thomas looked pretty much exactly the same as when she left, not a hair out of place. McCree, though, was somewhat disheveled. Nothing you could pin a finger on - his waistcoat was done back up, all clothing in its proper place, but his hair was just out of order a bit, his lips just a tad too red.

“Excellent job, both of you. Thomas. Write your report, submit it tonight. There’s your garment bag, make sure everything is accounted for, especially that jewelry. Back here tomorrow 0900 for extraction.” She nodded, grabbing her bag and walking to her own hotel room just down the hallway. 

“McCree, have a seat. Give me a second, and we’ll debrief.” Gabe started grabbing tablets, unhooking them one by one from the surveillance system. After a few minutes he had a stack of them, his own tablet in front of him the only one left. He turned to find McCree slowly pacing the room.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just still keyed up.” McCree walked close to Gabe, then away, the luxe fabric of his pants swishing softly as he walked. “Fine, but store those clothes before you wreck them. They cost more than you want to know. Your gear is right beside the garment bag.”

McCree sat on the bed and started picking at his shoelaces as Gabe turned to his tablet. “Okay, so did you get any real background on the guy, why he was here?”

“Not really. Mostly small talk. He mentioned growin’ up in Boston and goin’ to school in New Jersey, before going to London. Nothin’ about his business, the only time weapons came up at all were when Thomas or I mentioned ‘em, he never took the bait.”

“Hmm.” Gabe flicked through pages on his tablet. “Well, it confirms that I found the right guy in the civilian databases, but that also means we still have almost nothing on him. The guy is squeaky clean.”

“Dunno about that,” McCree muttered to himself. Gabe watched him in the mirror to the side of the desk. He was barefoot and shirtless, down to the suit pants, everything else hung up in the garment bag. As McCree stood and unzipped his pants, Gabe’s eye went to a dark mark on his neck. His eyes moved up minutely, and his eyes locked with McCree’s. McCree let the pants fall to the floor, careless of the expensive fabric and cut, still looking at Gabe through the mirror and clad only in skintight boxer-briefs that were specifically selected so they wouldn’t ruin the lines of the suit. 

Gabe broke the gaze first, typing on his tablet. He heard McCree hang the pants up, the zip of the garment bag. Once again he was listening to the other man, unable or unwilling to watch him. 

A hand at his shoulder, tapping at the buckle of his chest armor. “You gonna get out of your gear, Gabe? Or you gonna sleep in it?” Gabe twitched to hear his name, after hearing it so many times in a different context that night. “I’ll get to it eventually, McCree. Get dressed and go to bed.”

“I got some adrenaline to work off. Let me help you.” Two touches had the top straps of his shoulder armor unbuckled, two more undid the sides and a second later it was sliding off. Gabe didn’t know what was happening, and wasn’t sure how he felt about it. McCree was...undressing him? Getting him out of his gear? Maybe this was overspill from the mission - he’d made out with Bianchi half the night but Bianchi was the only one to get off, from what he could tell. Gabe kept typing. “Do what you want, McCree, I’ve got work to do.”

Click click click and Gabe felt his right legplates open. “Up,” came McCree’s voice by his feet, and Gabe shifted his weight to his left. His legplate and boot were pulled away, a clank letting him know they were leaning against the closet. Another few clicks and Gabe stepped out of his left boot and plate, barely paying attention. 

His attention was certainly caught when a hand snaked around his waist to press in right over his groin, his shotgun shell belt releasing. McCree caught it before it hit the ground, thank god. No one needed their legs blown off today. The second belt, the thin one with the studs, came off next. Nimble fingers plucked at his legs, detaching the leg harnesses on either side before undoing the main belt at his waist. 

“Those are grenades on the right. Careful, please,” Gabe murmured, giving the impression that he was still totally focused on his work and not the hands that seemed to be appearing from everywhere to undress him.

“How many belts does one man really need, Gabe?” came a question asked far closer to his ear than Gabe thought McCree had been. Only years’ worth of military training kept him from flinching.

“Until you get rid of that gaudy monstrosity you call a buckle, you’re not allowed to insult anyone’s belts,” Gabe said, eyes on his screen. A hand snaked around his shoulder, grabbing the zipper tab of his hoodie and pulling downwards unnecessarily slowly. Gabe stopped typing long enough for it to be pulled off his shoulders, hyperaware of his body.

Down to compression shirt and close-fitting navy pants and nothing else, Gabe felt a hand at his fly and smacked it away as he turned around. McCree was close, very close, still clad in nothing other than that sinfully tight underwear. Gabe looked him in the eye, from inches away.

“Why are you doing this, McCree? Did something happen, when you were out of visual? Are you okay?” Gabe couldn’t figure out the emotions going through him. Concern, arousal, worry, anxiety, all spun up around his chest.

McCree went back to pacing. “I told you. Just keyed up. These missions are...frustratin’.”

Gabe leaned back against the desk. “I’m sorry that you keep being sent on them, but…”

“But what. You’re the one that makes the rosters, Gabe.”

Gabe shrugged. “You’re good at them. The best we have. No one else is near as convincing.”

“Ever think about how frustratin’ it is? Asked to get person after person to like you, to trust you, and then somehow you fuck them over? Maybe they end up tied up, or killed, or dumped overboard, or unconscious like tonight. But it’s not a fair fight, not you against a person in armor who’s pointin’ a gun back at you. This is me with all my trainin’ against someone who three-quarters of the time is a civilian and doesn’t know what’s hit ‘em.”

“So how should we go about it? Firepower? Leave them broken and bleeding instead of sated and unconscious?”

McCree stopped and knelt down to straighten Gabe’s boots from where they had fallen against the closet door. “I don’t know, Gabe. I just know this isn’t what I like doin’.”

Silence for a moment. Quietly: “Why do you keep using my name?”

Pacing again, but this time coming closer and closer to Gabe.

“Wanna know how I do it? How I charm them, how I make them think they’re the only thing in the world to me?” He stopped for a moment, close, so close to Gabe that he can count freckles. “I pretend they’re someone else.”

Back to pacing away. “When I’m lucky they’re hot enough it can feel like I’m just pickin’ them up in a bar. Or they look enough like someone I know that I can convince myself. Or if I’m really, really lucky, I get to call them by a name I wouldn’t mind moanin’ out anyways.”

Even closer this time, “Guess which one it was tonight.”

Chimes as midnight struck, the various churches in the area singing out their hymns, the sound ringing in the quiet of the room.

“Why are you still not dressed, McCree?”

Pace pace pace.

“Because, Gabe. I’m a little tipsy, I’m a little wired, I executed a Blackwatch operation perfectly, and maybe I’m ready to do somethin’ ill-advised.”

Stopping again, bare chest brushing Gabe’s crossed arms. Breathing into his face, “Are you ill-advised, Gabe?”

Gabe’s arms uncrossed. He needed stability, he thought, casually locking his hands onto the desk on either side of him. “Fraternization....”

“...of agents is unbecoming of enlisted personnel, I know. And you know exactly how much it still happens.”

“I’m not an agent, Jesse. And neither are you. You’re an officer. I’m a commander. It’s...not the same. Not minor.”

Frustrated brown eyes stared into guarded brown eyes. “You said yourself that there’s no audio or visual recording, so we’re cleared for anything. The only two people we know by name in this city are passed out or asleep in hotel rooms.” A small step forward, chests brushing. “Tell me no right now, Gabe. Tell me.”

Gabe closed his eyes. He could smell the cologne McCree was wearing, the bourbon on his breath, the light trace of cigar smoke in his hair. He could hear his breathing, deeper and slightly more ragged than it should have been. He could feel...he could feel lips just brushing his, not doing anything but almost,  _ almost _ resting against his own.

With a grunted ‘ _ fuck’ _ Gabe pressed forward, catching McCree’s mouth with his own. His fingers dug into the muscle at McCree’s sides, pulling him forward. The kiss wasn’t the straightforward thing Gabe had always vaguely imagined, when he had lowered himself to dare thinking about it. It was full of passion and frustration and stubble and teeth. Gabe pulled back and darted his tongue out, tasting blood on his lower lip. McCree stared at his mouth, one hand clamped onto Gabe’s shoulder while the other gripped the side of his face. 

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

This time it was McCree that yanked Gabe’s head towards him, teeth clicking together painfully before sorting themselves out. Gabe was too turned on to feel ashamed about how his mouth opened for McCree, how he angled his head to get deeper, closer. He moved a hand up to thread into McCree’s hair, pulling back so he could dive in and bite at the stubbly hollow under his jaw. McCree’s air rasped under his mouth, whistling unevenly through his windpipe. Gabe felt a scrabbling at his waist as McCree tried to pull his shirt up without seeing what he was doing. Gabe pulled his mouth away, licking stubble-burned lips as he pulled his shirt off himself. McCree’s hands moved to Gabe’s fly, undoing it easily but stopping as the surprisingly tight pants refused to easily come down over Gabe’s thighs.

“What the hell, Gabe.”

“Gear isn’t useful if it’ll fall off you in battle, it needs to stay in place.” Gabe shucked his pants with practiced movements, stepping out of them to leave him at the same level of dress as McCree. He walked McCree backwards, pushing him to fall onto the bed. He stared down at his second-in-command, hair all amess, lips swollen, cock pushing against the confines of too-tight underwear. He wanted to say  _ are you sure _ , to say  _ last chance for a no _ , to say  _ why me _ . Instead he let McCree grab his waistband and pull until he fell on top of him, stopping his descent with straight arms on the bed.

Gabe kissed hard, because he might know what McCree sounds like with a target but McCree has never dealt with him. He’s gratified by the noises he’s getting out with mouth and hands, one of which is drifting lower and lower. Before he can reach below the waistband his wrist is gripped in a large hand and  _ pulled _ , the world spinning for a moment as he finds himself below McCree. 

McCree held his wrists down by his shoulders, hips slowly rolling into Gabe’s as he stared down at him with fierce eyes. “Do you know what it’s like, toyin' with all those people and knowin' that everything I say goes right into your ear? Every time. I know you’re listening. That you have to listen. Every time I jack off another weapons dealer or stick my tongue in a bodyguard’s mouth, you listen to it all.”

Gabe shifted his hips - not enough friction, not enough movement. McCree’s heavy body kept him right there, right on the edge of enough. They both knew that if this turned into an actual struggle Gabe would beat him, but that would mean blood and fury and a loss of whatever strange thing was happening right now.

“I know…” Gabe trailed off at a particularly lithe movement. “I know what it sounds like. What noises you make.” 

McCree let Gabe’s wrists go and dropped down, sudden pressure on Gabe’s chest. “You know what I let you know,” he growled and crushed his mouth against Gabe’s. His fingers dug into the sides of Gabe’s chest, pushing in and pushing down and the pressure made something in him relax that he didn’t know was tight. He reached down as much as he could and inch by inch they both lost their underwear. McCree’s cock was heavy against his, a bar of heat and stickiness surrounded by rough curls. It dragged against his leg as McCree worked his way down his body, stinging patches from bites surrounded by beard burn appearing every few inches. 

Reaching down next to the bed, McCree produced a black pouch. “Just tell me that’s not the one with the syringes,” Gabe rasped, a half-smile in response to the look McCree shot him as he pulled out a packet of lube. The smile vanished from his face as he threw back his head at the touch of McCree’s lips to his dick. Little licks around the head, cleaning off the precome that had smeared around, before being enveloped in soft, wet warmth. Gabe forced his head down and opened his eyes, so he could see McCree’s generous mouth wrapped around him, forehead wrinkled in concentration. 

Gabe barely noticed when the first finger slid inside him, other than his legs spreading instinctively. The second finger brought a moan, though that could have been due to whatever the hell it was that McCree’s tongue was up to with the slit of his cock. He felt empty, and looked down to see McCree wetting a third finger before pressing inside. 

“I don’t need that many,” he said, a touch of frustration in his increasingly uneven voice.

“You will,” said McCree, before sinking back down on his cock, this time with an intentional scrape of teeth. The fingers twisted, opening Gabe up ‘til his hips started to shift in impatience.

McCree sat back, slicking his cock with the last of the lube. Finally getting a good look, Gabe grudgingly agreed that perhaps he did need that third finger. Wide pressure at his entrance that Gabe bore down on, letting McCree slip in as easily as he could. He worked his way in with deliberate short strokes, not gentle but nothing that would tear. Once fully in McCree lifted Gabe’s legs up and pulled him forward, resting his thighs on McCree’s own. He leaned forward, curling Gabe’s body around in a way that might have been painful if it didn’t allow him to start thrusting so very deeply. McCree’s fingers dug into Gabe’s pelvic cut, pulling him in and out in rough tempo with his hips.

Gabe’s hands were restless. He didn’t want to touch himself yet, didn’t want to push forward to the edge. He twisted a nipple, pressed fingers into a deep bite on his ribs, ran a hand up and down his torso mindlessly. 

“Jesus Christ, Gabe,” McCree said, voice wrecked like he took up sword swallowing in his spare time. “D'you know what you look like?” He pushed in deeper, making Gabe’s spine scream as he bit at his mouth. McCree backed up, nails scraping lines into Gabe’s ribs and resumed propelling his hips forward, but now it had an urgency it didn’t before.

Gabe let his hand trail down to his cock, swiping precome off the head to make the stroke smoother. He was pulling on himself in time with McCree’s hips, tingles at the base of his spine where something was beginning. He jarred out of rhythm as McCree hit a shocky spot deep inside, his hips jerking once, twice, and he came over his chest, the angle McCree had him at making spurts go as far as his neck. The dopamine high was good, but not enough to keep him from noticing McCree’s hips stuttering before pressing in deep, tiny internal twitches leading to spreading warmth within him. Gabe didn’t recognize the sound that came out of McCree, something like a gasp with a guttural edge. McCree let Gabe’s legs fall before slumping on top of him, hard shaggy head landing on Gabe’s sternum. 

“Ugh.” McCree’s cheek was on a large patch of come. 

“Your fault.”

“Mmm.”

They lay there for a minute, breath returning to its regularly scheduled programming. Gabe’s ass was starting to feel all kinds of uncomfortable, so he heaved McCree to the side, biting back a noise as McCree was finally out of him. He went to the bathroom and ran the shower, in just long enough for a quick scrub. He exited in a cloud of steam and pitcheed a towel at McCree’s head. “Either shower or leave because I’m not sleeping next to your dirty ass.”

McCree rolled until he tipped off the edge, catching himself with a hand on the floor. He took the towel and ambled to the shower, not bothering to close the door behind him. Gabe made sure the many tablets were powered off and plugged in to charge, before setting an alarm on his personal one. He flicked off the lights and got into bed, absently glad that he came on his chest so there’s no wet spot. 

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knows a damp body is getting into bed behind him and pressing itself to his back. Now awake, Gabe’s thoughts spun around what’s next. One time thing? Something they’ll have to hide? How badly did he just fuck himself? One look at them and Jack might know.

A sleep-clumsy hand reached over and wrapped itself around Gabe’s chest. 

“C’n hear y’brain burnin’ from here. Don’ worry about it, we’ll figure it out tomorrow,” came McCree’s drowsy slur. 

They wouldn’t, certainly not tomorrow. But they couldn’t do anything about it now, so Gabe shut his eyes, and listened to McCree’s deepening breathing. 


End file.
